Faithful Paradox

Yesterday marked the finish of three years now without Ezra. The weekend was full of people caring for us, praying for us, and supporting us. It’s a gift to be a part of both a community and God’s church and see and experience the care of Christ extended through his people. It helps so much to be remembered and know that Ezra is also remembered.

As I sat down to consider what year three has been like, I think the thing that comes to mind is the word “softer.” Grief has felt less jagged; less sharp. Its pain is more gentle; it’s softer.

As we close out year three, I notice a shift happening; a lifting in many ways. I see a bit of capacity returning. I see God enabling my husband to not simply endure his work anymore, but he has more drive and vision. I see that my kids have far more good days than hard days. For myself, I see that I require less time to heal; less silence and solitude. I also see more hope on the horizon.

It feels complex because despite seeing the changes, there is still great sorrow. I cried a lot over the weekend. As I allow my mind to visit with the pain, the memories still come with deep sorrow. I still struggle with the question of why Ezra suffered so terribly. I miss my son fiercely. I grieve that he is not with us. Yet all of this, in some way or another, feels softer and less harsh than it did, even a year ago. I’m realizing that there is more nuance in healing than I previously understood.

I used to often equate healing to that of a broken bone. There was sharp pain, deep discomfort, a time of rest for the injury, but the hope with a broken bone is that there would be full healing; so much so that you don’t really consider the injury once you’ve moved past it.

Healing from loss, I am learning, requires much more nuance. I see healing, and yet I also ache. I see us pressing forward, and yet there will always be a part of my heart that struggles with the loss of my son. It’s both; healing and loss, restoration and brokenness. They are two sides of the same coin; one does not exist without the other. The only reason there can be restoration is because there was brokenness. Healing only comes when there was loss. They compliment one another and walk forward together. It’s not either or, it’s both and; the grey of the middle.

I know I will never fully understand what God is up to in Ezra’s story. God has promised that he will work all things for good; I do believe this. I am learning that the good that God promises may be eternal gifts that I cannot yet fully comprehend this side of eternity. I can see small pieces of good, like a softer, more tender heart, an understanding of God’s persevering love, endurance that God has given, a deeper and more tested faith, and things along those lines, yet I still do not feel that the good I can see outweighs the pain, suffering and loss. I don’t imagine it ever will this side of eternity and maybe it’s not supposed to.

I also see more nuance in the need of God’s redemption than I could see before. There are parts of Ezra’s story, pieces of suffering that are so engrained in my brain, so traumatic, that I want to forget them. I used to pray that God would just help me forget. I don’t know that I ever considered that God wants to also redeem the memories; at least not on this side of eternity. In the midst of pain, it’s easy to believe that those pieces just need to be forgotten or moved past.

I have believed for the past three years that I just needed to press forward; that these bitter memories and painful pieces of loss are a part of my story and I need to prevent my mind from dwelling on them. While there is some health to this, I think what God actually wants is to redeem these pieces of my story. Avoiding the pain does not bring healing; it simply blocks off portions of my life that I do not engage. This approach, while it feels self-protective, does not create space for Christ’s redemption.

God wants to redeem all our sorrows. I used to think it would only be one day in eternity; and I still think there are parts of loss for which this will be true. I am also realizing, however, that the enemy wants me to believe that I will always live with the weight of sorrow and loss; that there are pieces that will never be redeemed and traumatic memories will always haunt me. This is untrue. While I don’t know what redemption will look like, and I don’t know what it will mean for God to bring healing to these parts of sorrow that I still hold, I believe God desires to do so; and maybe that is the biggest shift in grief in this third year.

The first two years were wrought with unbearable pain and loss. The questions and sorrows felt louder than the comfort of God. Life felt like an act of endurance and perseverance. This experience bled into the third year as well, but as we close out the third year, I also see the bleeding is now staunched. I see this in that hope is beginning to stir. It feels like the tiniest flower in the spring, peeping it’s green head out from under the decay of fall and winter. It’s barely detected, but it’s there.

As I was praying the other morning, the word I feel like the Lord gave me was “restore.” There are a lot of pieces of my life right now that feel like they need the Lord’s restoration. What stands out today is that there is hope and belief that God can and will restore; not just in eternity, but also here on earth. This hope is new.

I don’t know what this fourth year will hold. I don’t know what continued healing, restoration and redemption will look like, but I find that my heart believes it will continue to happen. It’s no longer a discipline of faith to fight for, but a heart-held belief. This belief felt silenced and uncertain for the last three years. I’m grateful to be past these last three years. I’m grateful to be able to see these pieces of redemption and hold more hope for what restoration God may continue to bring in the next year.